


Befores, Afters, and New Beginnings

by asha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asha/pseuds/asha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ADWD. With the help of Stannis Baratheon, Sansa Stark has retaken Winterfell. In the process of rebuilding the castle, she must now meet with Theon Greyjoy, and decide his fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Befores, Afters, and New Beginnings

"My lady," Lord Stannis looked at the girl grimly, "do you wish to treat with him now, or later?"

"Now, if it please you." Sansa shifted in her seat in the great hall of Winterfell. The head seat. _Where Father used to sit._ Not even in her dreams did she ever sit here. "I know he has been your prisoner for many months."

They dumped him on his knees before her, a bundle of shivering bones and torn rags. His maimed hands were bound behind him, and his hair fell colorless in front of his face, yet when he looked up at the Lady of Winterfell, he smiled. _What have they done to him?_ was her first thought, a shocking pang of pity and horror shivering through her. _He deserved this, he deserved worse than this,_ was her second. "Sansa," he grinned at her through splintered teeth. "Good to see you again."

Sansa could not keep the disgust off her face, staring at the man who had once been so handsome—who she had once gossiped over at night with Jeyne Poole, even dreamed of being with. The dark, mysterious youth that she grew up beside, that supped with her every night, that played with her in the yard... that killed Bran and Rickon. Uncontrollable anger welled up in her stomach, and she felt the tears threatening to fall, but blinked them back. _I am the Lady of Winterfell now. I must be as strong as my lady mother, my lord father. I will not let them see._ "You killed my brothers." Her voice echoed eerily throughout the great hall, which was silent as a crypt. Stark and Baratheon men alike lined the walls and seats. She did not know what to expect from the sack of splintered teeth and rags at her feet—a look of remorse, perhaps; maybe a word of apology, or even sullen, sorry silence—but Theon Greyjoy looked her right in the eye and _giggled_.

Immediately, the hall exploded.

"Kill him! Flay his face and mount it on a spike like he did the little boys!"

"TURNCLOAK!"

"Traitor bastard, _let me have him!"_

Both Baratheon and Stark men spat and threw insults at the man at Sansa's feet, but the Stark girl remained silent. Finally, as the room began to quiet down, she leaned forward in her father's seat. "Why?" The word was no more than a hoarse whisper.

At first, it seemed he would not answer. His eyes traveled around the room, looking anywhere but Sansa's eyes. "He made me..." Theon Greyjoy licked his lips and swallowed. "Ramsay. He made me kill the boys. _They'll laugh at you_ , he said, so he made me kill them. They looked enough alike... the older one, though... his legs... the muscles... I was worried someone might see, someone might find out... so I burned the bodies. Ramsay, he... he flayed the faces, dipped them in tar... no one would know... only miller's boys..." he let out a shrill bark of laughter. "I am no kinslayer, my lady."

The hall was silent. Sansa exchanged glances with Stannis Baratheon, who stood at her side. "LIAR!" Sansa did not see who had screamed it, but the word bounced off the walls of the great hall and shivered up her spine.

"He told the same story to me a hundred times, my lady," Stannis Baratheon said stonily beside her.

It took Sansa a moment to find her voice. "You are implying that my brothers are alive."

"Aye, my lady."

Sansa stood suddenly. _Alive? Impossible. Could they really be alive?_ She descended the stairs that led to the head seat of Winterfell and stood above the ragged man on his knees. He turned his face, not eager to look at her, and even edged backwards a couple inches. She leaned forward, so that her face was level with his. He reeked of dog and dirt and excrement, but she dare not cringe. _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._  "You lie,” she breathed. “You’re a traitor and a liar.”

“I’m not—“

“Hold your tongue!If what you tell is true, then where are my brothers? _Truly?”_

"I don't... I don't know," Theon Greyjoy croaked. "We looked for them. All day and night. Followed their wolves, but..." he swallowed, "they were gone, and I knew... I was to be the laughing stock of Westeros. I couldn't... I _had_ to."

“Had to _what?_ ” She was losing patience, and her heart beat like a giant fist in her throat.

“Kill the miller’s boys. They were only miller’s boys. I’m no kinslayer, Sansa _._ ”

She straightened. “Bran and Rickon were no kin of yours,” she spat. Gathering her skirts, she turned from Theon Greyjoy and stormed towards the doors of the great hall. “Pick him up,” she commanded to her men. “I’ve had enough. Put him in a cell, I’ll deal with him later.”

Stannis Baratheon was at her heels as she left the hall. He waited until they were alone to speak. “Do you believe his words, my lady?”

“No. I’ve had enough, I said. I will speak with him privily on the morrow. Then we can decide the matters of execution.” The rest of the castle was colder than the great hall, and Sansa pulled her furs tighter around her shoulders as they walked. _If the gods are good, I will live to see the end of this winter._

Stannis cleared his throat. “I had thought we had decided on sacrificing the turncloak to r’hllor, my lady. It is the wise choice.”

“He is _my_ prisoner, now,” Sansa said sternly. “It was _my_ brothers whom he killed. We will do it the northern way, in sight of the old gods.” Stannis Baratheon’s lips quivered into a frown, but he remained silent. They stopped in front of the steps that led to her bedchamber. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace,” she curtsied slightly. _A good girl must always remember her courtesies._ “I think I’ll turn in early.” Then she swooped up her skirts and ascended the stairs.

 

~~~~~~

 

Sansa Stark barely slept a wink that night. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Theon Greyjoy’s splintered smile. The sun had barely risen a sliver over the horizon when she arose and dressed. It was difficult to fall asleep in her new bedchamber—in the bed that had once belonged to her mother and father. It was too large for just one person—for just one little girl. _No, I am the lady of Winterfell now. I am no little girl._ Often she felt as if her mother and father roamed the length of the room as she slept. _There are ghosts in Winterfell,_ she thought.

She summoned her servants, ordering a hot bath, which arrived blissful and steaming. It grew cold before long, though, as winter was permit to see, and soon enough Sansa was shivering in the basin. Her servants dried her off with a cloth, and garbed her warmly in a dark woolen dress, leather boots, and thick furs, before brushing out her auburn hair and fashioning it into a braid down her back. She had let it grow long and wavy like her mother’s had once been.

 _It is time to face him,_ she decided, not wanting to put it off any longer. Two guards escorted her down to the dungeons, but when they reached his cell she dismissed them. She took a deep breath as the door opened in front of her. _I must be as strong as my lady mother. As honorable and just as my lord father._

Sansa saw that she was not the only one who had suffered a sleepless night. Theon Greyjoy looked exhausted, slumped over a bowl of porridge on the floor that he was swirling around with a spoon. When he saw Sansa enter, he squinted up at her and smiled that splintered smile. “First they bring me porridge, and then a pretty lady! I’m receiving all kinds of presents today.”

“Be quiet, you vile creature.” The guards had given Sansa a torch, and the light from the fire bounced eerily off the rotting cell walls. “I want to hear your entire tale. I am not as quick to judge as Stannis. He meant to sacrifice you to the red god before letting a single word roll off your tongue. Tell it all, Greyjoy, and tell it true.”

Theon licked his lips. “I _told_ you,” he began. “They were only miller’s boys. I… I woke up in the night, and they’d gone missing… Bran and Rickon… so we went riding, looking for them. We brought hounds, and they… they followed the scent of the wolves. We rode for miles, but then the trail stopped at a river… didn’t go any further. Ramsay… he was the one that suggested it. _Reek_ , he was named then… before _I_ became Reek. He convinced me… he made me do it… I didn’t want to be laughed at, so I killed the miller’s boys. My father… he…” Theon paused before continuing. “He burned Robb’s letter. I was _angry,_ I… I’m a _Greyjoy,_ not a Stark, and I wanted to _prove_ it. Winterfell’s defenses were down… it was so easy, so tempting. We swam the moat, climbed the walls… no more than 30 of us. _So easy._ And then Ramsay… _Reek_ … he sacked the castle. Smiler, he… he burned right in front of me, kicking and rearing and _burning._ And then I became Reek,” Theon Greyjoy was shivering uncontrollably now, and Sansa realized how cold he must be. They had not even provided him a blanket. “I became Reek,” he repeated, “it rhymes with _freak._ ”

The light from the torch reflected like sparks in Theon’s dark eyes as he stared up at Sansa. She did not move nor speak. _Strong as my lady mother... honorable and just as my lord father…_

“You did not kill them,” she said at last. It was meant to be a question, but it sounded more like a statement.

“No. I swear it. On the old gods and the new. The Drowned God, too, and even the red one your king believes in.” He licked his lips. “I swear it on my father’s grave, Lady Sansa; on my brothers’. _I did not kill Bran and Rickon_.”

The cell was silent again for some time. Sansa could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Theon was still shivering violently, his remaining teeth rattling together. “And… my sister,” Sansa’s voice was barely over a whisper. “They say you saved her, but there’s talk that she was a fake. Was she? Was she really Arya?”

Slowly, and very slightly, Theon Greyjoy shook his head. “Her name was Jeyne. Your friend. Jeyne. It rhymes with _pain_.”

A chill went up Sansa’s spine. _Jeyne Poole… my friend, my best friend…_ “And you saved her? Why? How?”

“We flew,” Theon Greyjoy said, grinning widely. “Lord Ramsay was hurting her… the dogs… Arya, she… no, Jeyne, it rhymes with _pain…_ but the singer, Abel, he… only, he wasn’t Abel, he was a wildling, and his washerwomen too. They died, but we _flew_.”

He was babbling now, his words slurred and quiet; his breathing fast and heavy. Sansa had trouble making out what he said. When he was done he looked up at her eagerly, like a dog expecting a treat. All Sansa could do was stare back at him with a ball of pity welled up in her stomach. “Guards,” she said aloud. The door swung open behind her.

“Yes, m’lady?”

“Clean him up. Bathe him, find him some warm clothes, and then see him to his old chambers,” she turned to Theon, “I’m not saying you’re pardoned for your crimes. I’m not saying I forgive you. But I am saying I believe you. For the time being, you will remain hostage here at Winterfell once again.”

“You believe me?” Theon Greyjoy asked, the fire dancing in his eyes. The guards were already pulling him to his feet.

Sansa pursed her lips before breathing out a, “yes.”

 

~~~~~~

 

“This is madness, my lady,” the Baratheon king spat, his anger overriding him. “He _killed your brothers_ , and you let him walk the grounds like an honored guest?”

Sansa had asked to break her fast in her chambers to avoid unwanted contact with Stannis, but he had intruded upon her nonetheless. “He did not kill my brothers,” she said calmly, breaking off a corner of bread from the loaf in front of her. “If his tale is true, they were merely miller’s boys. And he is not my honored guest, he is my hostage, and will be treated accordingly.”

“ _Accordingly?_ By allowing him to sleep in a fluffed feather bed and sit at an honorable place in the dining hall amongst the men he betrayed? This… this _creature_ that sacked your castle!”

“I might remind you, Your Grace, that it was Ramsay Snow who sacked Winterfell.”

“Aye, but it was Theon Greyjoy who took it first. The northmen told me of those he slaughtered. Have you no heart, Lady Stark, for your own people? He killed your _brothers_.”

Sansa stood abruptly from her seat beside the window, her chair almost toppling behind her in her frustration. “He did _not_ kill my brothers. If you had listened to him with a just heart you might learn the same.”

“A _just_ heart? The weak heart of a woman, more like,” Stannis’s jaw was quivering.

“He may not be innocent of all crimes, but the rightful heir to the Iron Islands should be kept close, Lord Stannis. You should be quick to agree.”

“I have his sister. She is just as valuable. This turncloak will never sit the Seastone Chair,” Stannis took a step towards Sansa. “This is folly, Lady Stark. Were your kingly brother alive, he would have wasted no time in taking the traitor’s head—and they were as close as kin, I hear.”

“Robb would have done the same as me. He would _listen_.” Sansa’s words were sharp and stern. “I grew up beside Theon Greyjoy, Your Grace. I know him. Better than you ever will. I supped with him every morning and night, played beside him in the yard. I _know_ him. He is not lying.”

Stannis Baratheon looked as if he might spit in her face. Instead he turned on his heel and made to take his leave, but Sansa stopped him. “One more moment, if it please Your Grace.” Stannis stopped in his tracks, but did not turn to face her. Sansa continued, “My sister. Arya. Where was she sent?” She would not reveal to Stannis that the supposed Arya Stark had been a fake just yet.

“The Wall, to your bastard brother. We haven’t heard back since. Now if it please my lady, I have duties to attend to.” Then he swept out of her bedchamber, his guards trotting off after him.

Sansa smoothed her skirts and sat back down in her chair, shivering slightly. “Take this away, please,” she looked to her servants and motioned at the untouched food in front of her. “I’ve quite lost my appetite, I’m afraid.”

 

~~~~~~

 

Several days passed as Sansa continued about fulfilling her duties befit the lady of Winterfell. Her time acting as mistress of the Vale had taught her much of how these things worked, which she was grateful for, as there was much rebuilding to be done throughout the castle. The snow fell harder than ever, making Winterfell as cold as it was dismal and broken. Stannis continued to argue with her about Theon’s fate, but she would hear no more of it. She had given Theon leave to wander the castle at his wish, and caught glimpses of him from time to time at meals, but made no effort to make any extra contact with him. Neither did he, and often he avoided her eyes if she ever passed him in the halls. _He hasn’t even thanked me… won’t even acknowledge me,_ she would sometimes think with a scowl. _If it weren’t for me he’d be burnt to a crisp on a stake._

It wasn’t long before the day came where she got sick of his silence. The sun had just begun to set, and she had ordered supper to be brought to her in the bedchamber once more. As her food was brought in on platters, she caught the arm of one of the serving girls. “At your leave, tell one of the guardsmen to summon Theon Greyjoy to my chambers. I mean to talk to him.” The girl nodded and left.

 

~~~~~~

 

They had dressed him in clothes that were mismatched and much too large. They hung off his bony shoulders at awkward angles, but at least they were warmer than his previous rags. Heavy shackles were chained around his ankles, making his walking crooked and slow. When her eyes met with his, he smiled his splintered smile that she had not seen in weeks.

“My lady,” he greeted her.

“You may go,” Sansa told the guards that brought him in, and they left her alone with Theon Greyjoy.

Though his hands were unbound, he kept them clasped behind his back, as if on habit. He wore a hood over his ruined and brittle hair, and although he was garbed in thick furs, he still seemed to shiver slightly. _He’s so weak_ , Sansa thought, remembering the grinning youth she had known that had been so strong.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I would have summoned another chair for you to sit, but…”

Theon shuffled over to her bed—no, her _parents’_ bed—and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Sansa almost mouthed him off—almost reminded him of his place and scolded him to get up—but he just looked so weak. So _tired_. She felt another pang of pity hit her in her stomach.

“Are you being treated all right?” Sansa had warned him the Stark men might give him a hard time if she gave him freedom of the castle, but he had assured her he had suffered worse, so she agreed to give him leave.

“Better than I expected,” he said, looking down at his maimed hands, which he kept garbed in a pair of gloves. “Better than… _before_.”

The silence that followed was dark and heavy as the both of them thought of their _before_ ’s. Sansa stared at the gloves that covered Theon’s ruined hands and could only imagine what his own _before_ had been like. She cleared her throat. “Wine?” she asked him, filling up her own cup with a jug. She never drank too much—she was no Cersei Lannister—but a good cup now and then always seemed to calm her nerves. Theon said nothing, but took the glass with a gracious nod when she handed it to him. He had to hold it with both hands when he brought it to his lips.

“I slept in here, once,” he said suddenly, not looking up from his lap. “For a while, actually. When I…” he did not finish his sentence, but Sansa knew what he meant. “It felt like justice. That I got to sleep in Ned Stark’s bed when he was rotting in the ground, after he had treated me per fit a servant all those years.”

“Careful, Greyjoy. He treated you like a son.”

“A son?” Theon Greyjoy laughed. “Ten years, Sansa. For ten years, I was walking about with a noose around my neck. If my father stepped a toe out of line, Ned Stark would have hung me up without a second thought. That’s not how you treat a _son_.”

Sansa’s hands were clenched tightly around her wine cup. “I summoned you here to sup with me as a _courtesy_. You will not insult my father in his own bedchamber.”

“I’m not insulting, just telling the truth. I thought that was what you wanted.”

Sansa looked away from him and out the window instead, where the world was white with swirling snow. “You haven’t even thanked me,” she said coldly. “If it weren’t for me you’d be dead or worse, and you haven’t said a thing.”

Theon shrugged. “Most look at me and say death would be a kindness.”

Sansa set down her cup. “Don’t tell me I went through all that trouble to keep you alive, and you _want_ to die?”

“Pardon me, my lady, for making you go through so much _trouble_ ,” Theon snorted.

“You’re vile,” Sansa snapped. __

“My thanks,” Theon said, smiling. “There, I said it.”

It took all her inner-strength to refrain herself from flinging her wine goblet in his face. Instead she took another sip from it. Theon’s eyes were still fixed on his hands, and he fiddled with the empty fingers of his gloves. Sansa wondered if he was still thinking of his _before_.

“I’m sorry.” The words were small and Sansa could barely hear them, but they were there. “I’m so sorry,” Theon Greyjoy said again, louder this time. His eyebrows were furrowed, his face twisted. “For what I did. For swimming the moat and climbing the walls. I’m sorry I killed Mikken and Luwin and all the others. And Ser Rodrik," he began to tremble, "that was my fault too. I’m sorry about the miller’s boys, and the miller’s wife. I’m sorry for insulting your father and fucking Kyra in his bed.I’m sorry the wildling women died, and Kyra, and I’m sorry your mother died too.” He paused, choking on his words, and Sansa realized that he was crying. “I’m sorry I didn’t die by the side of your brother. That was where I should have been. Not here. Not Pyke. By his _side._ I should have died with him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And then his whole body was shaking with sobs, and he could say no more.

Sansa watched the pitiful creature on her father’s bed, her stomach tied in a knot. His hands had gone limp, and his goblet crashed forgotten to the ground. The wine spilled crimson and glittering across the stone floor. _Like blood,_ Sansa thought. _Like all the blood that he’s spilled._

Sansa Stark did not know what made her do it. Her limbs felt as light as feathers as she moved towards him. But suddenly she was sitting beside him, and her arms were wrapped around him, and he was sobbing uncontrollably into her long auburn hair. She rested her chin on top of his head, rubbing his back soothingly like her lady mother used to do when she was a child. _That was so long ago… was she ever even real? Was I ever even a child?_ She closed her eyes, trying to remember her young self—the girl who had been infested in songs and fairytales and beautiful princes. It was a before even before the _before_. Which one was more chilling, Sansa could not tell. She closed her eyes tighter. A tear scurried down her cheek and splashed upon Theon Greyjoy’s head…


End file.
